


A Fool's Game

by myboah



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternating POV's (OC and Arthur's), Arthur Morgan x Female OC, Descriptions of Violence Consistent with the Game, Eventual Sexual Content, F/M, Inspiration: that romantic plot line Rockstar decided to cut, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, eventual hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myboah/pseuds/myboah
Summary: Fleeing a former gang member in Blackwater, Rose McLane accidentally falls in with the Van der Linde gang. With no one to turn to and nowhere to call home, she warily agrees to ride with them. Despite her attempts to hide her dishonorable past, the consequences of her actions return to haunt her with a vengeance. Rose's feelings towards Arthur Morgan continue to draw her back into a life of crime and senseless indulgence that she had desperately tried to leave. Her morals are put into question as she realizes that, like her, Arthur battles with the good and evil living inside of him. Rose's influence on Arthur forces him to reconsider both what it means to be honorable, and what it means to trust someone in the face of tremendous loss. As the Van der Linde gang's downfall begins, their relationship begins to ignite. Not only will they have to survive the wreckage that is to come, but they also must learn how to love each other in the face of desperation and fear.





	1. Toward the Rising Sun

The robbery ended as quickly as it began, the cacophony of gunfire and the screaming subsiding into the silence of the plains. Blood ran from the driver’s bench into the wagon bed, filling the frame with the acrid smell of iron and moonshine. Rose McLane, hidden in the wagon between the bottles, pressed herself as close as she could to the wooden frame of the wagon, her hands clasped over her mouth to cover the sound of her labored breathing. She did not fancy the image of her corpse thrown to the bottom of a ditch with a bullet in its skull. 

“Poor bastard,” a man with a low pitched voice said, climbing up the side of the wagon and pulling the body off has he did so. “What the hell was that?”

“It’s his fault for not giving up the damn wagon,” the other man remarked. His smell hit Rose as soon as he climbed on. Her nerves, combined with the pungent mixture of body odor and carnage, forced a dry gag to arise from deep in her abdomen. 

“We could’ve talked him down, maybe, but now he’s got a bullet in his head because you’re too god damn trigger happy.”

“He was reaching for his gun, Morgan, what was I supposed to do?” the other man drawled. “Besides, it was gonna happen to him one of these days. Running shine out here with no protection? He’s just a fool who had it coming to him if you ask me.”

“I suggest you stop running your mouth or I’ll-,” Morgan began as the other man laughed. 

“What? Shoot me?” 

“I just might. So I suggest you start driving before I make you look like that man you just killed.”

“Oh, Morgan. Don’t pretend you are any less guilty than me,” the other man sneered, snapping the reigns of the wagon. 

Rose continued to remain motionless in the wagon bed, her skirt and hair slowly coagulating in the blood and moonshine that had pooled around her. Her heart had sunk to her feet, and her breathing quickened as she thought of what could befall an unarmed woman at the hands of two bandits. She feared, even more so, what would happen to her if she returned to Blackwater.

She contemplated her options, carefully watching the movements of the men sitting in front of her. It would be possible to jump off the back of the wagon and run, but that would have left her unarmed and fatigued in the wilderness, provided she could flee undetected. The man with the higher voice had shot the driver, some scrawny teenage bastard, before he could even surrender the wagon. 

The wagon creaked and moaned as it moved quickly across the plains, and the moonshine bottles shivering in the back of the wagon as they passed from one rocky road to another. Not a peep came from either of the bandits, despite the length of the ride. Rose gathered the two robbers did not care for each other much. As the pitch dark of the night faded to the soft purple of the morning, the rising sound of voices ahead filled her ears. The decadent smells of bacon, fresh cornbread, and coffee only further insulted her perilous situation. 

“Shit,” Rose breathed as the wagon slowed. Unarmed, disoriented, and exhausted, it would be impossible for her to put up a fight against these men without a weapon. Rose stared at the crate of moonshine across from her and decided upon a pitiful plan. Grabbing a bottle and clutching it close to her side, she quietly crept to the back of the wagon. 

“You’re back!” someone shouted, “I see that Micah’s endeavor was a success, then?”

“Sure, if you count shooting a kid in the head a success,” Morgan snapped as he dismounted the wagon.

“He was reaching for his gun. There was no reasoning with him. Besides, we couldn’t risk having him run off to tell anyone about his little encounter Morgan, now could we?” Micah said, also getting off the wagon as he did so. There was a long silence between the three men before the louder man spoke again. 

“You did… what you had to do. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made in order to provide.” 

Come on, Rose thought to herself. Despite her perilous situation, her impatience with these men began to rise as she grew more anxious to end this ordeal. Lifting the canvas with her free hand, she looked outward, searching the dismal area for a route of escape or somewhere to hide. She could see a few horses grazing, as well as a small bonfire about twenty feet ahead. Other than behind a few thin trees, there would be nowhere to hide. 

“Ye’ need help unloading there?” A man with an Irish accent chuckled from a distance. “I think we probably shouldn’t be bringing this to the buyer soaked in blood. I ain’t picky about what I drink, but he might be!” 

“The young man is offering to help for once!” The man with the grandiose voice laughed. 

“There a full moon or something?” Morgan remarked sarcastically. She silently praised the Irishman for ending the unpleasant philosophical discussion, although her appreciation did not outweigh her desire to flee. 

“Just don’t drop any of it, I’m sure Micah here destroyed enough of it as is. I could smell it on the way here.” 

As the man approached the back of the wagon, and she crouched with her right foot behind her and her left firmly lodged in front of her. As the hatch fell, she swung the white jug as hard as she could into the chest of the man opening the door. 

“What the fu-!” he screamed as he slammed into the ground. She leaped out of the back of the wagon and grabbed the Irish man’s gun from his holster before putting it to his head. She dragged him up as far as her small frame could manage, left arm around his neck, right with a gun to his head.

“Any y’all move and Irish here is getting a bullet in his head! We clear?” she screamed, her hands shaking. 

“Where the fuck did she come from? What the fuck?” the Irishman in her arm screamed. 

“Shut up!” she screamed over the panic of the camp. Suddenly, the guns of several men and an older woman were upon her before the Irishman could cry out again. A rush of blood went to the back of her neck, as she realized how outnumbered she was. Clenching her arm tighter around the Irishman’s neck, she aggressively cocked the gun pressed against his head. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” the man with the loud voice asked, aiming dual pistols at her. He looked as extravagant as he sounded, his hair dark and styled, and his fingers adorned in golden rings. Unlike many outlaws she had met, his clothes appeared to be relatively clean and fitted. Despite his appearance, being at the end of his gun did not fail to invoke the fear of god into her. Slowly, the rest of the group began to circle in on her. At least ten surrounded her, with no escape in sight. 

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“In case you ain’t realized,” he slowly began, “you aren’t in a position to be asking questions.”

“Give me a horse and let me leave.” she demanded, thrusting the pistol harder onto his temple. “And maybe I won’t kill him!”

“Miss, now, put the gun down. We ain’t gonna hurt ya’ if you just put it down,” Morgan said, his pistol nonetheless aimed at her head. “We don’t hurt women here.” 

“You take me for a fool?” Rose snapped, pressing the gun even harder against the Irishman’s head. She could feel her hostage wince under the end of the gun, but he did not attempt to escape. 

“Only if you don’t put the gun down,” he retorted. The older woman next to her cocked shotgun and aimed it at her with a vigor that Rose was all too familiar with. If none of these men wanted to shoot her, she did. They stood around her, old and young, Black and White, all of whom were ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Monsters or not, they were an enemy she was unequipped to fight. 

“Alright,” she whispered, pushing the Irishman away from her. She threw the gun to the ground and lifted her hands toward the rising sun.


	2. A Woman Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur question Rose about her past and how she ended up in the back of the wagon they stole. In a series of half-truths, Rose convinces Dutch that she is not a threat - just a young woman from Colorado who committed a justified act of vengeance. She breaks down, thinking about her past, and Arthur takes pity on her. Hosea, however, does not trust her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! My apologies for uploading this chapter so late. I'm preparing for graduate school and working full time, so it has been challenging to find time to write. From here on out, now that I have gotten back into the groove of writing, I will be uploading a new chapter every week! The feedback I received has been absolutely wonderful, and it means a lot when you all take the time to leave a comment or a kudos. So please, enjoy!

“What the fuck?” the Irishman screamed, stumbling in the dirt away from Rose. “You fuckers couldn’t have shot her?” 

“Calm down, Sean. She’s scared,” one of the men in the group responded, putting his hand on Sean’s shoulder. He was shorter, with dark skin and shining black hair. Half-expecting to be shot, Rose was immediately taken aback by his act of kindness, or at the very least, empathy. Seldom had she encountered outlaws who asked questions first, and shot later. If she were to survive this ordeal, she would have to properly thank him later. 

“You think I care about that? She was gonna-!” Sean continued as he was guided away by the kind man out of the heavily armed circle. As he was led further away, Rose could no longer hear him over the noisy discussion of those surrounding her. Her blood pounded in her ears, and the world moved in half time. Tears began to swell in the corners of her eyes. I don’t want to die like this, she thought. I've fought too damn hard to go like this. 

A wave of regret rushed over Rose. She had run halfway across the country to avoid finding herself at the end of a hangman’s knot. Her days had been spent cleaning up after the worst of men, and her nights had been spent in little more than a broom closet rented from some German wench. She had given up everything to try and go straight, and for what? Rose had no money, no family, and nowhere to call home. All because a bastard she should have killed found her cleaning his room. 

Rose’s racing thoughts were interrupted as her body unexpectedly collided with the ground. When she tried to push herself back up, her arms were yanked out from under her. She winced as her breasts and face were slammed back into the ground as her aggressor tied her hands together. His body loomed over her, his legs straddling either side of her short frame. She couldn't see him, but feeling the warmth radiate off of his body onto hers was unnerving. Years ago, she would have gone down kicking and screaming, all the while cursing him to hell and back. Rose was too tired to fight anymore. 

"I got her, Dutch!" Micah shouted after he had finished immobilizing her hands. "Get up, missy," he ordered, grabbing her arms and dragging her to her feet. She could feel her leg muscles quivering under stress and lack of nutrition. She did not respond to him, and instead averted her gaze from the people surrounding her. Looking down, she noticed that a tear running from the base of her dark grey skirt up to her hip, revealing a leg of her bloomers. It must have gotten caught when I jumped into the wagon, she thought. Although Rose was not prudish by any means, she was further humiliated by strange men seeing her intimates. The dried blood and moonshine caked into her hair and clothing did nothing for her pride, either. Again, she fought back the tears. 

“Micah, that is enough!” Dutch scolded, taking her from him.

“I was just doin’ the responsible thing,” he drawled, throwing up his hands. “You know me; I want to keep everyone the camp safe. This wild thing could’ve pulled a gun on us again.”

"Micah, you fool, she's barely standing," Dutch retorted, gently grabbing her upper arm. Rose was confused by his apparent empathy for her if she could call it that. Before Micah could speak again, Dutch got the attention of those still watching the event unfold. 

“We are going to give this lady some space 'till we figure out where she came from,” he ordered. “Now if all of you would get back to what you were doing, that would be much appreciated. Micah, you too.” 

Micah scoffed and sauntered away, his thumbs hooked onto his belt. Bastard, Rose thought as she watched the whispering crowd part around him. 

“Arthur,” Dutch called, as he turned Rose around and began to walk her in the opposite direction. “Would you be so kind as to take this young lady inside?”  
“Sure,” he replied, taking her from Dutch. 

“I’ll be in in a minute, I’m gonna speak with Hosea first and figure out how we're gonna handle this.”

Arthur nodded and took Rose's arm, directing her toward the small, run-down cabin across the camp. At least, she assumed that's where she would be - there was nowhere else that would count as indoors, at least to her understanding of it. Three tents were scattered about the camp, as well as a few sleeping arrangements that consisted of wood slats covered by a canopy. A sizeable fire burned in the center of camp, accompanied by an unconscious old man and several liquor bottles. There's always one of them, she thought. 

Rose stopped walking to admire the makeshift kitchen constructed off the side of one of the wagons. Her hunger pangs made the quaint setup look like a gourmet restaurant. Although a stranger to fine dining, Rose was familiar with campfire cuisine. The baked beans, cornbread, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee smelled heavenly. The man cutting up the cornbread, the cook she assumed, shot her a suspicious glance. With his top hat and beer belly, however, he did not seem particularly threatening. Nonetheless, she averted her gaze. 

Arthur lightly jerked her arm to get her moving again. She flinched under his touch and walked faster. 

"You hungry?" he asked nonchalantly. Rose's mind briefly froze, and she feared that they were going to withhold food from her. Early in life, she had learned to feign strength because her needs could be used as a weapon. She had no idea what he wanted from her, so she straightened her back and kept her mouth shut, unwilling to trust an innocent question. 

“Alright then, suit yourself,” he said dryly. 

When they reached the cabin, and Arthur leaned over Rose's small frame to open the door. Inside, a wood burning stove crackled in the corner, close to the table and chairs positioned in the center of the room. Despite the sagging, discolored wood hanging from the walls and canvas tarp covering a broken window, the place was lavish by outlaw standards. The Persian rug on the floor, the phonograph in the corner, and the thick scent of jasmine perfume were a strange juxtaposition to the rest of camp. She wearily walked inside. 

“Turn around.”

She looked at him, her face painted with fear. A picture arose in her mind of her being bent over the table, exposed and defenseless. She backed herself against the wall, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. 

“No,” she said sharply. 

“Ma’am I was just gonna cut you free, nothing more than that, okay?” Arthur said gently. Being alone with him still frightened her, but he seemed genuine. “We’re bad men, but we won’t hurt you like that.”

“All right,” she mumbled after a moment, turning around. She only half believed Arthur wouldn't pull something. For a moment, he gently took her hands and placed his knife in between them. In one sharp pull, her hands were freed. 

"You can sit if you want," he said, gesturing toward the table. Rose sat, and absentmindedly rubbed her wrists. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten ya’.”

She stared suspiciously back at him before averting her gaze to the ground. He opened his mouth to speak, one of the cabin doors opened. A young woman opened the door, noticed Rose and Arthur, and quickly took a step back. 

“What’s all of this?” she asked, shocked. 

“Miss O’Shea this is,” he stopped, looking at Rose for an answer. 

“Rose.”

“Rose,” he repeated, “and she was kind enough to be your alarm clock this morning.” 

Miss O’Shea was a pretty woman, with piercing green eyes and fiery red curls. The gold embroidery on her red and green dress twinkled in the morning light. She had slept throughout the entire ordeal. 

She looked down at Rose, and an expression of startlement and disgust crossed her face. She looked up at Arthur; looked down at Rose; and looked back up at Arthur again. 

“Where’s Dutch?” she asked nervously, her eyes flashing to Rose. Molly was unaccustomed to dealing with bloodied strangers near her boudoir. 

“Dutch is coming in here to talk to her in a bit. It might be best if you go grab some coffee while we deal with this,” he said.

“Right,” she said, and quickly walked out of the cabin. 

Arthur sighed and leaned into the counter behind him, averting his gaze from Rose. She noticed him glance at her leg, specifically the leg that was exposed by the rip in her skirt. She clenched the fabric of her skirt and pulled it over her bloomers, scooting closer to the table. As the silence between them grew more painful, Dutch and Hosea entered the cabin, much to their relief. 

Hosea sat down across from Rose, without comment. It was impossible to read the expression in his eyes, which was upsetting to Rose. Dutch sat down to her left, and Arthur remained in the corner, leaning against the wall. She took a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Rose said, “about… this.”

“I’m sure you are,” Hosea replied, lighting a pipe. “You managed to find yourself in a rather inopportune place, I’m afraid.”  
“I can see that,” she whispered. After a long hush, Hosea spoke again.

“Forgive me for being forward, but how’d you end up in that wagon? Miss-?” Hosea asked, pausing for her to answer. 

“McLane,” she answered, “Rose McLane.”

“Okay, Miss McLane.”

"I was trying to get away from a man in Blackwater," she began, choosing her words carefully. Her mind flashed to the bullet holes littering the walls of the Blackwater Inn. The hotel’s owner, a decent man, foolishly tried to reason with her attacker, Anthony Joyce. He insisted that Rose was not a killer, just the housekeeper. So, Anthony shot him in the head before taking off after Rose. His intervention had bought her the few seconds she needed to escape. 

“He wanted to kill me for something I did a long time ago. He wasn't hunting me or nothing, just happened to find me cleaning his room at the inn. We was both so shocked that I had enough time to run away and jump into the shine wagon rolling by. He killed the owner, though.”

Dutch leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands in front of him. His expression was perplexing; neither approving nor disapproving, believing nor disbelieving. He scratched his chin and sighed. "What exactly… made him want to kill you?"

“It’s a long story,” she replied quickly, “but I killed his pa a while back. His son ain’t the forgiving type.” The men looked at her with straight faces, and her heart began to race again. She killed Phillip Joyce, one of Montana’s most infamous outlaws, and handed his corpse over to Colm O’Driscoll. She gave him Anthony, too. He had agreed not to kill them if he and his gang could collect on their bounties. If Dutch had known this, it wouldn’t have mattered what made her do it, or how disgusted she felt with herself years later. He would have killed her on the spot. 

“Did he deserve it?” Dutch asked, after a pause. 

“Yeah, he did,” she said, unsure of herself. She remembered how she cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger without hesitation, the bastard’s blood splattering into macabre constellations in the snow. Even if revenge had made her feel better, Anthony Joyce’s scream as he watched his father die would stay with her for the rest of her life. 

“Why, if I may ask?” Dutch asked.

"He killed my sister," Rose told him, trying to keep her voice from breaking. "They both did."

Rose had not spoken about her adoptive sister since she had died. She found herself wishing that she had not said anything, not so that she could have produced a more convincing lie, but so she would not have to relive the memory. The men around her suddenly seemed faded and dull, and she felt the strong urge to cry. She did. 

Dutch and Hosea looked at each other earnestly.

“Bad business,” Hosea said sympathetically. 

“How long-?” Dutch began, and Rose shook her head. She felt like she was choking. 

“Four years ago.”

"I'm very sorry about that," Dutch said, pausing for a moment. "Are you a wanted woman? My apologies for inquiring like this, but we need to know.”

“I-I don’t know,” she replied, tears falling down her cheeks. "Not down here at least." 

“Where might you be wanted?” Hosea asked. “Dutch is right; we have to know if you being here will endanger us.”

“I might be wanted in Colorado, but I ain’t sure. He killed my sister, and I killed him. It would make sense, for the law to assume I did it. But… folks around there ain’t too bright,” she explained, bending the truth. She could be wanted there for various robberies and murders, but not for killing Phillip Joyce herself. As far as she knew, the law was unaware of the women in her former gang. 

"Did you kill someone important?" Hosea asked. Oh, lord did she.

“No,” she lied. “Just some bastard who thought he could get away with hurting people. Thought he was better than everyone else. But he lived out in the mountains, so ain’t too many people knew him. Just those of us who lived out there.”

There was a long pause in the conversation as she started to cry harder, the tears cutting through the blood and dirt caked to her cheeks. She did her best to wipe away the tears, but only made a bigger mess of herself. Rose didn’t know if the tears came from a place of shame or anger, but it didn’t matter. She had cracked, too quickly for her own good. 

The silence was interrupted by Arthur rattling through his coat pocket. She had forgotten that he was even there. He pulled a cigarette from the red and white carton and lit a match on his boot. After putting it out, he looked up at Rose, who appeared even more pale and frightened than before. He couldn't help but pity her.

“Do you smoke, Miss McLane?” Arthur asked, and Rose nodded. He pulled another cigarette out from the carton and lit it with the burning end of his. She took it gratefully and brought it between her lips. She dragged the harsh smoke into her lungs and began to feel a little calmer.

"Thank you," she said, exhaling.

“You know, normally we normally wouldn’t be this indignant to a lady, but you did threaten to kill one of us.” 

“I’m real sorry about that,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill me then and there, after what I pulled.”

“We’re outlaws, Rose, not animals,” Dutch interjected, sounding rehearsed. “We’re not going to kill you for being… unlucky.”  
“I appreciate that.” She groped for something else to say. “Ain’t like I wanna be here.”

“Most people wouldn’t,” Hosea said, “That being said, do you have anywhere to go? You mentioned that you couldn’t go back to Blackwater.”

"No, not really." She felt a pang of loneliness but ignored it. "Haven't for a while."

"There's a lot of folks here who feel that way," Dutch said. "You're welcome to stay with us for a while, 'till you can get back on your feet.”

Rose’s looked at Dutch, surprised. She hardly believed that after holding another gang member hostage and admitting to murder, that she was being offered somewhere to stay. Whether or not it was safe was an entirely different question. If they weren’t going to kill her, however, this was the only option she had. 

“Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t,” Dutch replied. 

“I suppose I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she replied reluctantly, taking a drag off of her cigarette. It had shrunk substantially over the past few minutes, her nerves continuing to get the best of her. 

“Rose, here we shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed em’ as need feeding…I can tell we scare you, but you’ll be safe here. We have folks that'll take care you,” Dutch said, his tone reassuring. 

“Thank you,” she said after a moment. “I hope you don’t find I need shooting.”

Her comment, although not intended to be a joke, received a light laugh from the three men.

"I think you might find that you like it here, Miss McLane," he took her free hand as he stood up and gave it a gentle pat. The smile on his face seemed genuine, and he was charming. She allowed herself to relax a little.

“I hope so.”

“After what you pulled with Sean, I’m sure that you’ve made a few friends already,” Arthur told her, smirking. Dutch let go of Rose’s hand and chuckled.

“Oh?” Rose asked, taking that she should get up as well.

“You’ll see,” Hosea added. “Sean’s an idiot.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Arthur chuckled. 

“You sure he won’t be upset?” Rose asked cautiously. 

“Upset as in embarrassed, sure,” Hosea answered, slowly getting up. “But, he’ll get over it.’”

“Ah, well, we love the Irish bastard either way,” Dutch said. He exchanged a look with Hosea that Rose couldn’t see, before turning to Arthur. “Arthur, would you take Rose to Miss Grimshaw so she can get cleaned up? And make sure she gets something to eat, too.” 

"Sure thing," Arthur said, gesturing for Rose to walk out the door. She stepped ahead of him and opened the creaking door. The sun was higher now, painting the sky a gentle blue. More people were milling about now, including some young women and a little boy, and they all turned to look at her. She was still scared, but less so.

“And Rose,” Dutch said sincerely, “thank you for trusting us.”

“All I’m doing right now is surviving, I’m afraid,” she replied, stopping in the door frame. “But I hope I can, at some point.”

Dutch nodded, and Rose took that as her cue to leave. She flicked her cigarette to the ground as soon as they walked through the door, squashing the dying embers with her boot. Dutch and Hosea watched the pair leave, and Hosea audibly sighed. He furrowed his brow and turned to Dutch. 

"Do you think it is safe, keeping her here?" Hosea asked. 

“I think so. Rose seems like an alright girl," he replied, "We’ve taken in worse.”

“I’m not so sure,” Hosea said. “Something doesn’t feel right.” 

“What doesn’t feel right?” 

“She’s not like Mary-Beth, or Jenny, or even Karen. She came out of that wagon ready to fight us like she'd done it before."

“As opposed to cowering to us?” Dutch asked. 

“Not exactly.” Hosea paused, thinking of what to say. What was it about her that made him so uneasy? “She seems like… she’s not being forthright." 

“Perhaps she isn’t,” Dutch conceded, raising his shoulders. He was not especially worried by Rose. She had surrendered quickly and seemed amicable enough, which was enough for him to sleep soundly at night, provided someone was keeping an eye on her. Hosea erred more on the side of rational fear. They didn’t know much about her, other than she had killed some son of a bitch’s father over her dead sister, and was on the run because of it. 

"It just seems like there's more going on than the sob story she told us. But I could be wrong," Hosea admitted. "I hope taking her in doesn’t bite us."

“Me too,” Dutch agreed. “Me too.”


	3. The Outlaws' Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Rose begins to assimilate into the van der Line gang, learning how she is expected to behave if she is to stay with them. Arthur and Micah apologize to Rose.

Rose sat at one of the round camp tables, alone, folding the gang’s laundry. Miss Grimshaw put her to work after her first day in camp, much to Rose's dismay. She had become a housekeeper for men even dirtier than the ones she had been paid to clean up after. And, she had to hide her secrets here.

Even though her work at the inn was backbreaking and monotonous, she had been fortunate enough to have an understanding employer. The owner, a German man named Heimlich, was decent enough to her. The pair had an unspoken agreement not to ask questions about each other’s personal lives. Heimlich had a penchant for debauchery, gin, and male callers. Rose could steal from guests without them knowing, get blood out of just about anything, and had been known to come to work with a knife strapped to her leg. They were far from friends, but they appreciated each other’s amicability. She was damn sad he died for her. 

“You mind if I sit here?” a loud woman’s voice asked, snapping Rose out of her thoughts from the past. Before Rose could respond, Karen Jones plopped down across the table from her. She pulled out a small wooden box and set it down. 

“Yeah, sure,” Rose said after the fact. 

“You got any clothes in there that need sewing?” Karen asked, pointing to the pile sitting on the table. 

“Yeah, there was a red shirt over here that needed fixing,” she said, picking up the torn shirt from the chair next to her. “It’s a pretty bad tear though, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to-.”

“Oh I’ll be able to fix it alright, assuming Susan doesn’t come over here and start nagging me again,” Karen drawled, taking a needle and thread from the box. Rose nodded and went back to her work. She picked up a black sock, and dug through the pile, trying to find its missing half. She looked up as Karen laughed, apparently out of nowhere.

“You know,” she began, “you were quite the sight, coming into camp looking like a bat out of hell.”

“I’m sure I was,” Rose replied, relieved to see that Karen had a playful grin on her face. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for! We don’t get much entertainment in camp. And I was mad at Sean, but that’s… well, unrelated,” Karen said. Rose took the hint to pry about Sean but was thankful someone found humor in the situation.

“I’m glad you find it funny,” Rose remarked. “A lot of folks here won’t even look at me.” 

“Just ignore them, I’m sure they’ll warm up to you. Half the people in this gang are here because they tried to rob one of us. Hell, I’m here because I tried to rob John.”

“Which one’s John?” Rose asked, looking around the camp. 

“He’s the tall guy, bout’ my age, with the dark brown hair. Kind of smelly too, if you’re asking me. Jack, the boy running around, that’s his son,” Karen explained. Rose was having a hard time keeping track of everyone and was sure she’d forget who he was soon.

“So… you got here because you robbed John?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you don’t mind telling me, I am a little curious as to how that happened,” Rose pried, finally finding the other black sock she was searching for. As she folded them together, two more women approached the table. 

“Hey, you two!” Karen said, waving to Tilly and Jenny. “I was just telling Rose about when I tried to rob John.”

“I love this story!” Jenny exclaimed, sitting down next to Rose. Rose liked Jenny. Jenny seemed like a sweet girl, which was surprising, considering she lived among outlaws. She had been the one to help Rose get cleaned up, and had even lent her some of her old clothes. She was a quite a bit taller than Rose, so her borrowed skirt dragged on the ground, and the sleeves of her light green shirt went just past her fingertips when unrolled – but at least they were clean. 

“Oh lord, this again. Hi, Rose,” Tilly said casually, sitting at the last chair at the table. Rose was surprised that Tilly had acknowledged her. Tilly had said little to her over the past few days, but would occasionally shoot her a suspicious glance. Rose worried that Tilly saw through her half-truths, but decided it would be best to ignore her. Drawing attention to her insecurities would only make them more apparent, and Rose was well aware of that. 

“Alright, y’all listening?” Karen asked, getting everyone’s attention. “So I used to be a working girl near Kansas City a few years back, and that’s how I met all of these fine folks,” she said, gesturing to the camp. 

“You know, things was hard back then. Sometimes I got nice men who would pay well, but most of they were piss drunk and too easy to rob for my own good. So one night, John and the Callender boys were at the saloon I was working, drunker than a pack of skunks. So, I decided to go up and talk to em’, and they -” Karen paused, realizing the attention had shifted from her to something behind her. Micah sauntered up to the women, a mischievous smirk on his face. Karen huffed and turned around to resume her sewing. 

Rose rolled her eyes at him, looking back down at the laundry to avoid making eye contact. Before she went straight, she would have stuck a knife in him for how he hurt and humiliated her. Her desire to survive outweighed her grudge – and killing the man in camp was sure to ruffle a few feathers, or more likely, incite a bit of gunfire. 

“What do you want, Micah?” Tilly asked, her tone venomous. 

“Oh nothing from you sweetheart, I just came over here to have a word with Ms. McLane,” he drawled, looping his fingers around his gun belt. He sauntered next to rose, standing close enough to her where she could feel the heat radiate off of his body. Rose noticed Jenny staring at the ground, anxiously running her fingers through her hair. 

“Yes?” Rose asked, not looking up from the laundry. Her irritation heightened when she realized that there were only two more shirts left to fold, so she would have to look at Micah sooner rather than later. 

“I just wanted to apologize for the whole… wagon situation. You seem like a nice girl and all,” Micah said, leaning against the table. She turned away and noticed Karen and Tilly glaring daggers at him. 

“Alright, Micah,” Rose said, rolling her eyes.

“You know; I’d like to make it up to you if you would be so agreeable to that.” 

“Is that so?” Rose asked unenthusiastically after it had become painfully apparent that the table’s deafening silence was not enough to make him leave. 

“How bout’ I take you up to Strawberry for dinner sometime, maybe we could even stay the night. I’d treat you real well,” Micah offered, the lust in his voice apparent. Rose was unsure if his flirtation was a vain attempt to make her uncomfortable, or if he was serious. She could hear her heart racing in her ears, and her face turned bright red as she scrunched up her brows. She clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Mr. Bell,” Rose said slowly. “I ain’t interested in the company of a man at the moment.” 

“Well, that’s a damn shame. You know, you’re a mighty fine looking woman, Rose. I bet you’ve made quite a few men very happy with that figure of yours. You ever been a working woman, Rose?” Micah sneered, and Rose jolted up and faced him, her blue eyes wide with rage. He let out a harsh laugh.

“Have you ever even been with a woman, Mister Bell?” she asked, raising her voice. She attracted the attention of three men sitting by the central fire - the old bearded man who went by “Uncle,” and the Callander boys. Rose recognized the pair of idiots upon meeting them as Heimlich had banned them from the hotel not too long ago for extensive property damage (that they refused to pay for). They, however, did not remember her. 

After a moment, Uncle began to laugh so hard he slumped over and set down his liquor bottle. The Callander boys laughed too, as did Tilly and Karen. Micah turned a bright shade of red and backed away from her. 

“I’ll have you know that I have been with many, many women,” he scoffed, locking eyes with Jenny. She quickly got up and walked away; her head lowered in shame. 

“Piss off, Micah,” Karen taunted, noticing Jenny’s discomfort. 

“You women don’t know who you’re dealing with!” Micah sneered as he walked away, his ego sufficiently bruised. Rose sat back down and watched him, her head pressed into her hand out of exasperation. After a moment, Tilly leaned over the table to get Karen’s attention. 

“Did she…?” Tilly asked, looking in Jenny’s direction, who had walked around the ladies’ wagon to sit on the other side. 

“I don’t know, she never said anything’ to me about it,” Karen said. “But I don’t know why anyone would.”

“Well, I sure hope not. Micah is -,” Tilly began, a look of disgust on her face. 

“Liable to get you itchy?” Karen interrupted. Tilly and Rose laughed. 

“I was going to say that he’s repulsive, but you’re probably right about that, too.”

“Well, for that poor Jenny girl’s sake, I hope he ain’t,” Rose said as the trio watched Micah saunter to Pearson’s wagon, grabbing a whiskey bottle and taking it with him. Pearson opened his mouth to say something, but he shook his head and looked back down at the carrots he had been chopping.

“Good lord, isn’t he pathetic?” Karen asked. 

“Which one?” Rose replied, “Are we still talking about Micah or the other smelly man with a mustache?”

Tilly gave Rose a playful look and shook her head. Karen laughed even harder than before.

“She’s got some spunk, this one,” Karen remarked, pointing at Rose. “I think I’m gonna like having you around. What do you think, Tilly?” Rose felt butterflies in her stomach and beamed at Karen. It had been a long time since anyone had expressed affection towards her, and it was wonderful.

“Ladies!” Miss Grimshaw shouted, bringing Rose back to earth. She seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, summoned by their laughter. “You three need to get back to work! Especially you, Rose. I heard the trouble you was causing with Mister Bell.”

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw,” Tilly said, a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. Karen stood up and swiped her sewing project off of the table, before rolling her eyes and walking past Miss Grimshaw. Rose sat there silently, her temper beginning to flare again

“You better learn to watch your tongue in this camp, missy! You’ve been here all of three days, acting like you own the place!” Miss Grimshaw scolded. Rose wanted to fight her and insist she had done no such thing, but the thought of her being sent back to Blackwater motivated her to keep her mouth shut. 

“Understood,” she said, looking at the ground. 

“This is my camp, and you will go by my rules! That means you have to work to earn your keep!” Rose nodded along to Miss Grimshaw’s tirade, continuing to bite her tongue. 

“I worked today, Miss Grimshaw, and yesterday. I got the laundry done,” she said, pointing to the neatly folded pile on the table. Miss Grimshaw walked up to the immaculately folded pile and ripped a pair of pants off the top. 

“You got all of this done since yesterday?” she asked, her disbelief apparent. She smelled the pants and gave Rose a look of either skepticism or disgust. Rose was shocked that Miss Grimshaw had decided to sniff an outlaw’s pants, even if they were clean. 

“These are… clean,” she said, setting them back down on the table. 

“Yes, ma’am I wouldn’t have folded them if they weren’t,” Rose replied. 

“How’d you manage to get the stain out of this shirt,” she asked, picking up a white dress shirt. 

“I borrowed some vinegar from Mister Pearson… it gets rid of armpit stains if you didn’t know.” 

“Well, I’ll be. I suppose you’ll have to accept my apology then, Miss McLane. You are a mighty fine laundress,” she remarked. Rose gave her a fake smile and nodded, trying her best to appease her. 

“Well, ma’am, I’ve been a housekeeper for a few years now. I have a lot of practice getting stuff clean.”

“Well, what else you good at?” Miss Grimshaw inquired. 

“What do you mean by that? Just… anything?”

“No! I meant housekeeping skills,” she snapped. Rose clenched her jaw and inhaled deeply. 

“I guess… I can cook alright. Ain’t too good at sewing though,” she admitted. 

“Lucky for you, Mister Pearson has just started making supper,” Miss Grimshaw said, leaning her body towards his wagon. 

“Alright?” Rose asked. At that moment, Rose falsely believed her hard work had earned her some time to relax. Susan Grimshaw had other plans. 

“So get over there and help him!” she scolded. After an obligatory “yes, Miss Grimshaw,” Rose slowly got up and walked heavily to Mister Pearson, who gave her a friendly wave. She found the man’s enthusiasm stifling. In spite of her frustration, she put on a kind face and pretended to be pleasant like her life depended on it. 

…

 

Rose stared at the canopy above her, counting stars through its holes. The pathetic material did little to provide cover from the sun, and it would surely be even more useless when it rained. Suddenly, the windowless closet her landlady rented to her seemed fit for royalty. 

Rose grabbed the corner of her jacket and rolled over on her side, furiously trying to get comfortable on the wooden slats that were supposed to function as a bed. The rug on top of the slats smelled like mildew and dirt, only adding insult to injury. She had spent her childhood in a series of abandoned cottages and deep-wooded campsites but seldom had to sleep like this. Her adoptive father, Merle Joyce, and his gang had was known for many terrible things – but inhospitality was not one of them. They took care of their own, always making sure that everyone was well-fed and had a warm bedroll. She missed him terribly. 

After helping with dinner, Rose served herself first – after all, she helped make the stew, and it only seemed right she got to eat first. The “ahem!” received from Miss Grimshaw gave her a hint that she was not to eat first. By the time everyone else had finished, there was hardly anything left in the pot. The roar of her stomach, the hand-me-down clothing that was far too large for her, and the god damn wooden slats under made her long for a home she never had. 

The only sounds from within the camp were the fire crackling, the tent flaps in the wind, and quiet snoring. Just as Rose found a bearable position and drifted to sleep, Karen began to snore next to her. She flipped onto her back and grabbed fistfuls of her hair, feeling close to crying from frustration. Instead of opting to smother Karen, Rose trudged to the campfire. At least it’s warm, she thought. 

Rose looked around, making sure that no one was watching her, before pulling a wolf hide off of the campfire log-turned-bench to use as a sleeping mat. She gently laid it down on the ground and curled up on top of it. Sleep came easy, but no sooner was she awoken by the sound of whispered conversation. 

“You think Dutch is going to listen to Micah’s plan? To rob a god damn ferry?” Rose heard Arthur whisper as she came to. 

“I…I don’t know. He might,” Hosea paused, and when he spoke again, it was much softer. “Ever since Micah’s been around, Dutch has been listening more and more to him and less to reason.” 

“Maybe… I hope not. We have a hell of a scheme, and we ain’t in no rush.” 

“And it’s a safe one, at that,” Hosea said. “I’ll bring it up with him again tomorrow when you head up to Strawberry. Hopefully, I can talk some sense into him before he completely sets his mind on it.”

Rose knew better than to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help it. After going straight for so long, the desensitization she developed to outlaw activities had faded – the thought of robbing some rich bastards rekindled a yearning to return to her prior ways. But to rob a Ferry? Rose knew Blackwater well and struggled to see how a scam like that could work. The ferries that docked in Blackwater were guarded to the teeth by lawmen and outlaws alike. It would be nearly impossible to access the valuables on board, let alone get to shore undetected. 

“Hopefully,” Arthur agreed. There was a pause between the two men, interrupted by a yawn from Hosea.

“Well, I think these old bones need a rest,” Hosea remarked. “You should get some sleep too, you’ve got one hell of a ride tomorrow.” 

“I s’pose you’re right,” he said, the shuffling accompanying his reply indicating he had stood up. “Think I’m gonna go sit by the fire for a bit though.”

“Alright, Arthur,” Hosea replied, his tone a tad scolding. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Rose closed her eyes and slowly tucked her arm under her head, breathing as slowly as possible when Arthur approached the campfire. She heard him stop, and could feel his gaze on her. After a moment, Arthur walked off, and sleep quickly began to take its hold on her again. Rose put her guard back up when Arthur unexpectedly returned to the fire. He stopped next to her and placed a soft quilt on top of Rose. Slowly, she opened her eyes to watch Arthur sit down on the other side of the fire, on top of a large crate. He pulled a journal from his pocket and began to write. 

“Arthur?” she asked quietly, lifting her head. She was relieved that he thankfully thought she was fast asleep. 

“Sorry, Miss McLane,” he whispered. “I thought you was asleep.”

“I was… ‘till now,” she lied. “Why’d you bring me this?”

“I noticed you was sleeping by the fire so I thought you might be cold.”

“Oh… well, thank you,” Rose said, sitting up and wrapping the patchwork quilt tightly around her. She was apprehensive towards his gesture but accepted it none the less. “I was mostly over here on account of Karen snoring, but let’s keep that between the two of us.”

Arthur chuckled. “I am all too familiar with her snoring. That and, well, everybody here’s I suppose.” 

“I bet,” Rose agreed, a small smile creeping up the corners of her lips. “I’m still getting used to it.”

“I’m sure it’s a big change from Blackwater, with all of its modern amenities,” he said sarcastically.

“I don’t know if I would call bathing and beds modern amenities. But I do miss them,” she replied, leaning against the log behind her. 

“Well, ain’t you a high society lady.”

“I suppose I am,” she said, wiggling her shoulders a bit and putting on her best high society accent. “Didn’t you know that wearing clothes that don’t fit and smelling like horse shit is the newest fashion in Saint Denis?” 

“That I did not. I wouldn’t be surprised though, rich city folk are -,”

“Pompous idiots?” 

“Yeah, that,” Arthur agreed. The two sat in awkward silence for a moment, both Rose and Arthur unsure of what to say. Arthur fiddled with his hands for a moment before looking back at Rose who was struggling to stay awake, her eyes half open and her head tilted to the side. 

“Speaking of rich city folk… I’m headed up to Strawberry tomorrow if you’d like to come,” he offered. 

“I think if I leave, Ms. Grimshaw will kill me,” Rose replied. “I do not understand how that woman hates me so much already.” 

“Susan don’t mean nothing by how she acts. It’s just… how she is. Always been that way as far as I can remember, and I’ve known her for twenty years. But she doesn’t give the other girls any trouble when they ride with me.”

“Maybe… I don’t have any money either. Or a horse,” she said, still nervous about leaving camp. She hated it, but there was some semblance of safety amongst the van der Linde gang. Safety, however, did not equate to trust. The twisted her mousy brown hair around her finger and sighed, trying to think of a believable excuse. “Truth is I’m a bit scared to leave camp, with Anthony around.”

“Who’s that?” Arthur asked, the concern in his voice apparent. 

“Oh… he’s the man who tried to kill me.”

“Ah. I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Arthur said reassuringly. “And about the money… I got a decent score from that moonshine, and if you need anything I’ll get it for ya’.”

Rose thought about everything she left in Blackwater – she didn’t have much other than her clothes, a few personal care items, some books, and her gun. She assumed her landlady had already pawned everything she owned, the penny-pinching hag. By all accounts, it would be reasonable to think that Rose was dead, but that did not make her any less angry about it. 

“That’s very generous of you,” she said sheepishly. “But I have to ask… why are you being nice to me, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well I… I feel real bad about what I put you through, and I’d like to make it up to you. You can consider it my apology, I guess,” he answered. Rose was uncertain about his offer but decided to accept it cautiously. In her experience, men were only this kind when they wanted something, and Rose knew all too well what that was. But Arthur seemed genuine, even a bit clueless – unlike Micah. 

“I’ll accept your apology then if you put it that way.” 

“It’ll be nice to have some company on the ride there,” Arthur said, yawning. “Normally I’d offer to take some of the other girls, but I’m headed up there to scope out a lead. Nothing dangerous or anything, but it might look a little odd if I show up with a wagon full of young ladies.” 

“That’s understandable,” Rose said. “What time you thinking about heading out?” 

“Early, so we don’t have to ride through the mountains after dark.” 

“Sure thing, I’ll be ready… what time is it anyway?” 

Arthur pulled out his worn pocket watch and checked the time. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, before looking up at Rose, who had laid back down on her side. 

“Christ, it’s one-fifteen. I’m going to head off to bed then,” he said with a yawn. 

“I’ll get back to sleep then, too,” Rose said, closing her eyes and pulling the blanket up to her head. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Night,” he said, getting up and taking his hat with him. The camp fell silent once again, the fire much smaller than when Rose first laid down next to it. Her exhaustion outweighed her anxiety, and she quickly fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone! Here's chapter three! I worked really hard on it, and I'm so sorry that it took over two weeks to write (especially since I said in the last chapter that I would be posting a new chapter on a weekly basis). Life got in the way - I got bronchitis and I had to (unexpectedly) help my dad job hunt. 
> 
> So for the foreseeable future, I will be updating as frequently as I can. I am having a lot of fun writing this, and completely intend to keep going with the story, even when it takes me a while. So thank you for your patience, and enjoy! Also, feel free to follow me @myboah on Tumblr if you want to connect or offer me ideas for the fic! 
> 
> Also... y'all are going to get some major Arthur and Rose scenes in the next update. It's coming, don't worry.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I would sincerely like to thank anyone who has taken the time to read my story. It comes from finally being in a place where I can write, as we as having the inspiration to do so. I don't intend to bastardize the original storyline of RDR2, but I thought that the idea of looking at the gang's downfall (and Arthur's redemption) from the perspective of an outsider/lover was intriguing. Anyway, I thank you once again. Readers like you mean the world to me. Please feel free to offer me any suggestions in the comments below! It has been years since I have been able to creatively write, and I know I am a bit rusty.


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